Reincarnated Lord: I can upgrade everything!

There existed four exalted ranks within the realm of the Awoken Ones—each one a step closer to the peak, each more distant from the limits of men.

The first was the Legendary Rank. At this stage, an individual’s will, obsession, or boundless desire shaped a world within them—an inner world so powerful that it began to infringe upon the natural laws of the real one. Fire could burn without fuel. Steel could bend before will. They were men whose inner truths distorted reality itself.

But the second stage was even more surreal.

It was the Mythical Rank—where the Awoken One’s inner world did not merely affect reality, but overlapped it.

Their world bled into existence, transforming the battlefield into a projection of their very soul. Earth, sky, gravity—everything bent beneath the weight of their spirit.

Then came the third: the Ethereal Rank. At this level, time and space became malleable, and the Awoken One could not be matched by mere men, not by any means. Movement ceased to follow logic. Attacks came from places unseen. They walked outside the world, even while standing within it.

And the final, most elusive rank—

The Apex.

No one had ever reached it. No records. No proof. No survivor’s tale. It was a whisper passed down through generations—a myth embroidered upon the edge of dreams.

What would the apex of strength even look like?

To Aaron, it had always been lore—a tale told to children and those with dreams to keep aspiring for a peak that never exists.

But now…

Now he stared at a 26-year-old Mythical Rank Awoken One. A man whose inner world contained two elemental dominions; snow and gravity. That should not have been possible.

Aaron’s pupils trembled.

It wasn’t the Asher of now that terrified him—it was the Asher of tomorrow. The inevitable. The future that would devour them all if left unchecked.

The Apex might not be real.

But this man could very well make it real.

He had to die. Now.

Aaron’s mind hardened.

With a surge, his Force exploded outward, distorting the air in a whirlwind of pressure and heat. His right eye ignited—not in flames of red or blue, but a pale black, the color of void and ruin, surrounded by tendrils of white smoke that writhed like ghosts.

A two-coloured reveal.

Above him, the sky groaned—and then a colossal red eye opened like a celestial wound. It hovered high overhead, as wide as a fortress dome, and glared down like an ancient cyclops awakening from slumber.

Its unblinking gaze cast a crimson glow across the land, illuminating everything in a one-kilometer radius. The snow beneath Aaron’s feet evaporated into mist. The floating boulders suspended in Asher’s gravity field crumbled into dust, disintegrated by the heat and pressure of his gaze.

Two inner worlds now clashed—snow and gravity versus fear and rot.

The battlefield groaned, caught between two overlapping dominions that had no right to coexist.

Asher moved first.

With a savage cry, he charged—boots crunching deep into the snow, breath misting, eyes locked on the two riders galloping toward him.

Steel gleamed. Hooves thundered.

When the distance between them vanished, Asher dropped low, sliding onto one knee. Twin blades swept overhead, missing by inches.

In one fluid motion, he unleashed a horizontal slash.

Both warhorses screamed as their legs were severed clean through, their mighty forms toppling mid-stride. The two lords crashed to the ground, snow exploding around them.

But Asher wasn’t finished.

Even as the bodies fell, ice spikes erupted from the earth behind him—jagged, glistening spears of death hurtling toward both men.

One spike found its mark.

Aaron was impaled clean through.

But Reuel twisted, his instincts sharp, and narrowly avoided the full brunt. The spike scraped through his side, drawing blood but sparing his life.

Aaron didn’t scream.

In fact, he laughed.

The ice spike that had pierced him shattered as his body pulsed with unnatural energy. The wound closed with unnatural speed, sealing itself as if he had never been touched.

A crimson layer spread over his body—runic skin, etched with shifting symbols that shimmered with power. His golden hair flowed longer, his features sharpened, and his gaze grew colder than death.

No blood spilled.

As if he had no blood to spill.

He rose with eerie calm and gave Asher a wide, mad grin.

“You shall meet your end tonight,” Aaron said, voice like a hymn to death.

Before Asher could even shift his weight, a chill shot down his spine. His instincts screamed, raw, primal, absolute.

He obeyed without hesitation.

His shield whipped behind him just in time.

Clang!

Sparks burst into the air like a miniature sun. Reuel had appeared behind him, silent as a phantom, and was sent staggering backward by the block, though his attack had nearly carved through. Asher’s eyes narrowed, a deep grimace twisting his features.

His shield, a near-relic of his triumphs, now bore a deep, ugly gash down its center. That strike hadn’t just been swift. It had been monstrous.

A flicker from the corner of his eye.

Above.

Aaron.

And in front, Reuel again, closing the distance like a ghost walking through time.

They would reach him at the same instant.

Asher’s mind raced.

For a moment, he thought of raising his guard, preparing for a clash, but a sharper instinct surged in his blood.

He shot sideways in a burst of motion, snow flaring around his boots like white fire, and mid-motion, he unleashed a blade beam backward, a crescent arc of force and steel slicing the battlefield like a storm.

Reuel’s eyes widened.

The force caught him fully, and he was hurled backward, his feet carving two deep gullies across the snow for nearly a hundred meters. His sword dragged with him, its tip buried deep into the ground like an anchor in a storm.

Aaron didn’t move.

He stood exactly where he had descended.

But his torso…

A massive wound split across his abdomen, deep enough to sever any mortal in half.

And yet—

It closed.

It sealed.

Not like flesh mending, but as if the wound had never existed, an illusion ripped away by reality’s refusal to accept it.

The chaotic roar of the battlefield suddenly rushed back into Asher’s ears.

The clash of steel. The screams of men. The neighing of dying horses. The thunder of hooves. His soldiers fighting tooth and nail against the enemy’s cavalry.

It all sounded distant.

Aaron’s voice slithered in like venom.

“How does it feel, Lord Asher? To be pushed to a corner? To have nowhere left to run? No allies to help. No grand army to save you.”

Aaron’s golden hair billowed behind him like a war banner. But Asher was already there—right in front of him, a blur of golden eyes and killing intent.

Steel clashed.

A violent shockwave exploded outward as their blades met, snow lifting like a tempest around them. Asher leaned in mid-clash, closing the distance faster than Aaron could anticipate, and his elbow crashed into Aaron’s cheekbone with brutal precision.

In the same instant—

Another elbow—this one pale-white, and massive, slammed into Aaron’s opposite cheek. The manifestation of Kyros, Asher’s battle avatar, had struck in tandem.

Aaron’s skull crumpled inward.

But he didn’t fall.

He snarled, eyes still alive with malevolence, and with both hands grabbed Asher by the coat. Muscles bulged with inhuman power, and he hurled Asher like a missile.

Asher rocketed through the snow, spinning, smashing through trees and stone until he crashed into the Whitewood town wall, cracking the defensive structure and sending shockwaves through the heart of the settlement.

Only then did people realize he had been thrown.

Aaron leapt after him.

Force gathered into his feet, glowing red and black, and when he landed—

Boom!

The ground beneath him imploded in a radius of three hundred meters, forming a crater like a meteor impact. Trees shattered. Snow boiled into mist. The earth cracked like glass beneath a god’s fury.

But before he could even blink, something slammed into his nose—a round shield, crashing into his face with bone-shattering force.

Aaron reeled backward.

‘He’s fast!’

Out of the fog of snow and shattered earth, Asher emerged like a revenant.

His golden eyes blazed, not just with rage, but with a lust to kill, sharp and pure like tempered steel.

He brought his blade down with a cry—but it was met by another.

Clang!

Reuel stood before him once more, his blade intercepting the killing stroke.

“Did you forget me?” Reuel said softly, his voice like silk laced with venom.

His eyes…

They glowed, not with rage or fear, but with something strange.

Something… beautiful.

Like the blooming of a rare, poisonous flower.

A slow, confident smile curled across Reuel’s lips. He had seen this moment a thousand times in his mind. The exact second when his talent would activate, worming its way into Asher’s consciousness like a creeping vine. Soon, the golden-eyed lord would be frozen in place, a marionette strung to his will.

But something went wrong.

Instead of a dazed gaze or slackened muscles… Reuel felt fingers; cold and unyielding, clamp down hard on his face.

“What—?”

That was all he managed before Asher let out a deep, primal roar and slammed Reuel’s skull into the snow-covered earth with devastating force. The ground cracked, a spray of snow and soil exploding outward. Reuel’s body jolted from the impact, half-buried in the crater he’d just made.

But there was no pause.

Aaron was already there.

A streak of red and gold.

With a swift, brutal motion, he cleaved through Asher’s arm—severing it at the shoulder before plunging the jagged blade of his Kingsword deep into Asher’s abdomen.

The steel cut through flesh and bone with ease.

Aaron didn’t stop.

He lifted Asher into the air like a conquered beast on a pike, blood trailing in arcs and splattering to the snowy ground below. The sheer weight of the moment hung heavy, Asher, impaled and suspended, his coat soaked crimson.

Aaron’s eyes gleamed with triumph.

Then it shifted.

A sudden force pulsed around Asher.

Gravity.

It fell upon him like the hand of a god, dragging his body downward with unrelenting pressure. His feet slammed back to the earth, the sword still embedded in his body, but he stood.

Somehow… he stood.

He raised his head slowly.

His eyes burned white—luminous, seething, unseeing in a human sense. Not golden now. Not even mortal.

His breath escaped his lungs in deep, guttural heaves—thick and rumbling, echoing like the growl of a giant wolf standing alone before the slaughter.

Far off, hidden beneath a veiling spell on a tree above the battlefield, four mages watched in solemn silence. Among them was Nephis, her hands clasped before her.

She narrowed her eyes, and through layers of distance and magic, her gaze locked on Asher—on the blood-soaked man who refused to fall.

The white burning in his eyes.

The twitching, tattered muscles around his wound.

The breath that shook the air like a drumbeat of defiance.

Nephis frowned, her voice cool as ice.

“A wolf on its last legs,” she scowled.

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